The Colour of Pain
by Echo-AU
Summary: **Warning: Not a happy story** "Soaked and chilled, she kisses this woman, this force of nature, this collision of contradictions and promises her always." ... The life and times of Swan Queen through the varying colours of life.


******Disclaimer: I own nothing no matter how much I wish I did. I just took them out of the cupboard to play.**

**A/N: All mistakes are my own. I apologize for this - it just wouldn't leave me alone was I was trying to write Home Ch10 and I had to get it done so that I could go back to concentrating on my multichapter fic. I am sorry.**

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**Black**

Like the night Emma enters her life, knocking with determination against expensive, heavy timber; her throwing the door open to the darkness beyond. There is that moment of anticipation followed by relief as she spies her wayward son.

The breeze is cool upon her skin and the sky clear overhead – the moon has not yet risen and cannot bear witness to the scene that plays out beneath its skies.

And then, there is her.

A force of nature that Regina does not see coming, would never have anticipated nor tolerated in her life for more than the briefest of moments. She incorrectly sees a meek woman before her, hands shoved deeply within the pockets of her jeans, eyes averting – she feels a mild pang of disgust, as grateful as she is for her son's safe return.

When their eyes meet, she sees the inevitability of fates colliding.

Standing there, illuminated in the light from the house behind Regina, she almost glows incandescent against the night. Almost seems _more_. More than human, more than just this woman, more than anything that has ever swept in to her town and it feels like it will leave a burning trail in its wake.

She takes in the sight of the blonde and knows, in her heart, Henry has sought her out. This woman with worry written so plainly across her face – a collision of contradictions from the shuffling feet to the steely gaze when she lifts her eyes; of hope warring with resignation.

This is the woman Henry wants. More than his own mother, more than the one who has raised him. Henry has chosen.

Black like the night, she feels the pain sharply in her stomach – a knife slicing in and ripping her apart.

**White**

Like her tank top when she opens the door, tight against her body, and she pretends not to notice. Pretends she doesn't see the well defined curves, the flat planes of stomach – the hem that clings to a waist and gods does she pretend not to notice the soft, bare thighs of the woman before her.

She licks her lips involuntarily and starts a rehearsed speech she will never remember saying.

Her eyes linger on the white cotton of the shirt that hides nothing and conceals everything.

"Miss Swan." And the words crack as if she is parched, dying of thirst, and this woman is the only one who could save her.

She sees her own downfall mirrored in this woman and she straightens her back and reminds herself that Emma will leave, as all ultimately do. _This is for the best_ she will tell herself, time and again, until eventually she will believe it.

The tank top burns its image in her mind, and even as the door to the room closes behind her, she sees it. Sees her hands running over it, around it, under it; can envision the soft skin that would greet her fingertips and the whimpers of _more_ that would escape the blonde's lips.

If only.

If only this were not the mother of her son, the woman her son has chosen over herself. And she feels the white hot surge of anger once again, at being cheated, robbed, of even the thought of happiness in her life.

White hot anger wrapped in the memory of a tank top.

**Yellow**

Like her hair when she slips her fingers through it for the first time, letting it tangle and slide against her skin. It is nothing like she had dreamt, nothing like she had imagined and the softness leaves her without breath.

"Gods," she murmurs, a reverence upon her lips as she captures those before her.

She wonders if she could find a measure of peace; if the months of fighting were nothing more than foreplay to get them to this very moment, her hand caught in the younger woman's hair. She holds it tightly, winding it more forcefully around her fingers and finds herself groaning in response to Emma's soft gasp in her mouth.

As she pulls back she lets her hand slip from the locks, watches as they fall across shoulders and back.

Without warning the blonde has stepped in to her space, staring intently in to her eyes as hands tentatively move to wrap around her waist.

"Are we really going to do this?"

The words are almost inaudible, more a thought given breath, and Regina wonders if she truly heard them or only imagined it so.

She has no answer, for she feels only the tug of fate and the burning of inevitability in the wings of her mind. Instead she tilts her head and a smile plays upon her lips for the briefest of moments before she is once again kissing the younger woman.

There is nothing between them but the promise of _right now_ and the faint hope of _maybe later_. But this, Regina decides, is enough.

She closes her eyes as she slips her fingers up underneath a white tank top, closes her eyes to the soft, yellow hair before her and relishes in the feel of this strong willed woman in her hands.

**Red**

_Like the gods forsaken jacket Miss Swan refuses to give up, regardless of how out of fashion it has been for at least the past decade_. But even as she picks up the jacket from the floor of her bedroom, Emma sound asleep between her satin sheets, she finds herself placing it carefully over the back of a chair.

The time has come that she admits this jacket is as much a part of Emma as her personality; that to throw it away would be akin to discarding a part of Emma's identity. She forgets when it was that she began to care.

"Come back to bed," she hears, a voice thick and almost incoherent.

Instead she takes her time, watching as sleep claims Emma once again, pulling her down in the torrents of slumber. The lithe body beneath the sheets twitches briefly before stilling once more.

A lump forms in her throat at the peace on the younger woman's face – an expression she had never expected to see. A look of belonging that she can only wonder, can only hope, to have mirrored on her own.

"I could love you," she murmurs to the silent form before her and finds herself holding her breath, as if expecting a response, a rebuke, a rebuff. But the only sound she hears is the gentle, even breathing of the blonde woman and she releases the air as it burns at her lungs for escape.

Slipping beneath the covers, Emma moves to her in her sleep, arm latching around her waist, head to her breast. It takes only a moment for Regina to wrap her arm protectively around the slender form of the woman at her side.

She kisses blonde locks as her eyes skim once more over the jacket on the back of the chair; red pleather jacket, beautiful only because it belongs to Emma.

**Blue**

Like the mug that Emma has claimed as her own, that has taken up residence beside Regina's white mug next to the espresso machine. Regina watches with interest as Emma once more stumbles in to the kitchen early in the morning, hair in disarray, as she makes her way to the coffee machine and prepares two cups.

She has given up making her early morning coffee, preferring instead to let the younger woman do it. Gods know, Emma makes awful coffee, but something inside her is warmed by the fact that she _wants_ this simple domesticity and a cup of bad coffee is a willing price to pay.

Not once does she show Emma the correct way to make her coffee, instead preferring to take the white mug from an outstretched hand as a kiss is placed against her forehead. She watches as a blue cup is brought up to soft, red lips, as a hand is run through a tangle of yellow hair and she wants to pull that white tank top off the body she has come to know so well.

Unceremoniously, Emma sinks in to the chair beside Regina; pulls her feet up underneath her and sighs in contentment.

"Do you have the comics?" she asks as her eyes glide down to the newspaper Regina has been reading.

It is with only the slightest of motion that Regina points to the comics page, already pulled from the paper and she is rewarded with the same embarrassed grin she receives every week. The urge to kiss the corners of that smile are overwhelming.

Time passes in companionable quiet as they read.

"What do you think about taking Henry to the lake today?" Emma asks, the semblance of reading gone as her body remains still, waiting, and Regina recognizes it intimately. In another life, she too, felt like the outsider.

"I think that is a wonderful idea," she replies as the blonde visibly relaxes. Without thought, she squeezes Emma's knee, rewarded again by a smile that lights up the room. The only thought that passes through her mind is _maybe_.

**Green**

Like her eyes that mirror her soul, that speak when she has no voice. She could feel the depth of their presence even in the darkest of nights, when they would turn up to her and speak volumes without sound.

She thinks, maybe, it was Emma's eyes she fell in love with first.

Their expressiveness, their inability to guard the emotions running buried so deeply below the surface. Or, perhaps, Regina just knew what to look for in another damaged soul.

She holds Emma's face and looks in to those eyes as she rests her forehead against her counterpart's. Their breath mingles together as the cold, winter air burns their cheeks, turning them red. The forest trail behind them becomes lightly dusted with snow as Henry rushes up ahead towards the playground.

Green eyes speak to her, hold a promise of _tomorrow_ – always tomorrow – and for the first time in more years than she can remember, she believes in that promise.

Eyes avert from her own, glancing towards the retreating form of their son, and that mischievous smile plays over pale skin. She cannot help but lean in to it, press her lips lightly against that smile, and emerald sparks turn back to her. This time they hold another promise, a promise of _later_.

They move apart as if through molasses, and like magnets are drawn back together the moment they are parted. She lifts her arm, placing it around the Sheriff's shoulders as she feels an arm wind around her waist, drawing her body in closer. A head rests on her shoulder and green eyes once more look up towards her.

Beneath all the sounds they're not saying, she can hear the look they give, read it in the depths of those pools. _I trust you. I need you. I want you._

_I love you_.

**Grey**

Like the storm clouds that are gathering overheard.

"Miss Swan, I have no intention of ruining a perfectly good outfit."

And it's true – her expensive pant suit is newly acquired, worn only this one time, and she can already see the sheets of rain moving steadily towards them from the horizon.

"Oh come on, Regina, when was the last time you played in the rain?"

She rolls her eyes and glances once more at the clouds before turning to go back inside the house. It's only a matter of two steps before she feels hands wrap around her wrist, holding her.

"Miss Swan, let me go." She looks towards the horizon again, the curtain of rain moving ever closer. The wind starts to pick up and there is the smell of rain in the air. Years have passed since she was in the rain, decades of holding herself indoors. _Would it really hurt?_ She glances towards Emma and sees a hopeful look upon perfect features.

She relents, relaxes, responds. Together they face the rain as it starts, ever so softly, ever so slowly, to fall upon their heads, matting their hair.

It is only when it is raining heavily that Emma pulls her in to a tight embrace, sways with her gently to music only she can hear and the water runs in rivulets along their tightly pressed bodies.

"Tell me," she hears murmured in her ear and confusion wells within her. She pulls back, ever so slightly, tries to read those green eyes that hold the promise of redemption.

"Tell you what?" And she is genuinely curious.

"Tell me yes."

Regina steps backwards, puzzlement written plainly across her face, as she watches secrets swim by in green eyes.

Without warning, Emma is on a knee before her, a small box pulled from the pocket of a red pleather jacket and Regina could swear, in that moment, that all of Storybrooke had become void of oxygen. She clasps her hand to her chest, the expensive suit forgotten as salty tears, disguised by the rain, run down her cheeks. There is only one answer she can give.

And Emma is there, standing before her, slipping the ring over her finger – a smile lighting up her face and the grey sky around them.

She presses both palms to the blonde woman's face, pushing sodden hair back from her temples as rain continues to fall between them. Soaked and chilled, she kisses this woman, this force of nature, this collision of contradictions and promises her _always_.

**Grey**

Like the cell phone that rings at seven minutes to three in the morning. The house is quiet and her bed is empty and cold on the side that has become Emma's. The covers are still tucked up underneath the odd, banana shaped pillow that her wife prefers to use; it has remained neglected this night.

With annoyance she answers her cell, barks out her greeting in clipped tones designed only to convey her displeasure.

"I'm not interested in a burst water main at this hour of the night," she replies, "you know who to call, see to it that it gets done."

She ends the call to the sound of screeching tyres and brakes, to the sound of a crash and a horn that won't stop blaring.

It takes her only a fraction of time to be out the front door, running down her pathway until she sees the sight that will take her breath away, take her heart away, take her soul away.

Grey cell phone pressed tightly against her ear, she has dialled 911 without thinking.

"There's been an accident."

She is detached and cold on the outside as her insides squirm, as her mind tells her over and over again _no, no, no this is not possible_.

She rushes to the car, the emergency operator still on the line as she sees a dog run off in the distance.

"Don't leave me," she murmurs, "don't you dare leave me." A mantra playing over and over as she pulls open the car door.

"Mayor Mills, are you still there?" She hears distantly from her phone and it requires her to glance down to see that it is still in her hand.

The grey cell phone informs her, in bright white numbers at the top of the screen, that it is two minutes to three.

**Green**

Like the tree that is bent, snapped at an angle at which it should never be snapped, folded back over the car. She has a sense of horror, the macabre, all born witness under a clear, starry sky.

The horn cuts out, seemingly of its own volition, and she curses that Emma would not have a car with air bags; she is thankful Henry is at a friend's house tonight.

She wants nothing more than to see green eyes telling her secrets, but the younger woman's head is turned the other way and Regina is unwilling to turn it towards her. _Just in case_, she tells herself, before throwing up in the hedges nearby. She thinks, maybe, she saw the slightest twitch of an arm, but the operator tells her to remain clear and wait for paramedics to arrive.

_They'll be there soon_, the voice on the other end of the grey cell phone had told her what feels like a life time ago.

A hint of pine scent is carried on the breeze and she finds she has been scratching, clawing at her arms only when she begins to feel dampness beneath her fingernails.

Green.

It registers with her again as the tree lays over the car, surreal in its positioning.

**Black**

Like the skid marks of the tyres upon the road outside her manor. Empty road, clear skies and she hears the buzz of the street light from across the street.

Black on black. She stares at the marks, their final statement to what has happened, follows them to their inevitable conclusion.

Bile rises in her throat and she empties it on to the bitumen before taking her spot once more, kneeling beside the open door of the car. Lightly she touches a denim-covered leg and wonders if she told Emma today that she loves her. Guilt and panic wash over her as the unresponsive blonde passively remains within the car.

In the distance there is the wail of sirens – a saviour for her saviour.

She watches as it streaks up the street, lights flashing, and she is thankful she is the only one to live on this block; to spare the looks of pity that would be directed towards them.

"Help her!" she cries before the engine has cut out. In her desperation she fails to notice the blood on her knees from the glass on the ground – it is inconsequential to her.

In a moment of pure absurdity, she does, however, notice that the ambulance has been parked across the black tyre marks.

**Yellow**

Like the paint of the bug that Regina has never liked, likes even less now. Pushed and dented, glass broken with the door hanging at the wrong angle from the side.

Yellow and she sees her, pulled from the car, head supported and laid upon the stretcher, her hair matted to the side of her face.

_Stretcher, yes, stretcher is good._

But her eyes move back to the car, smashed and broken and yellow. Emma had once told her it made her feel happy, that the world could be burning and her little yellow, little safe bug would be there. It is a punch to her gut and she dry heaves once more.

"I'm riding with her," she says with an air of authority that she does not feel. Her mind rapidly makes bargains with any higher power listening.

She turns her back on the scene and climbs in to the ambulance, leaving the terror behind her.

She decides to buy a blue car when Emma is well.

**Red**

Like the blood that has sprung from nowhere on the journey to the hospital. They continue on with haste as panic grips Regina's heart; so much blood pumping from her body. Red pleather jacket could not hold this much in. She wonders why she never noticed its absence before now.

_Stabilize_.

She hears the word through the fog in her mind as blood drips down the metallic side of the gurney.

"Almost there," says the paramedic, her hand pushing hard against Emma's side. Blood seeps through the padding and between the fingers of the latex glove, life bleeding out, and Emma is so pale.

Her hand is cramping and she tears her eyes from her wife's features, notices once more the grey cell phone gripped tightly in her palm. Twelve minutes past three, it displays for her.

Her breath is shallow and she can smell the copper-scented life oozing from Emma – it is a smell she knows intimately, though wishes she would never know again. Pulling herself tightly in to the corner of the ambulance van, she watches as the paramedic works.

_I love you_ she wants to say, but the words die on her lips, as if admitting them now would be a final goodbye, a final confession of her helplessness. She rails against the lack of magic in this realm.

It is only as they wheel Emma out that she sees how much red is left behind.

**Blue**

Like her lips as one doctor begins compressions over her rib cage and another squeezes a bag that is attached to a tube in her wife's mouth. A long, porcelain white arm falls and hangs, dangling from the side of the bed, artificial movement created by the doctors.

Tears burn her eyes that she will not let herself cry. She stares at the ceiling, willing them to go, blinking furiously in anger.

_Not tonight_, she tells herself over and again, unyielding in her desire to keep Emma with her.

But the blue is prominent, fingertips tinged the same colour as her lips and the doctors stop and check the clock.

"No!" She screams as she bangs a fist against the glass window separating them; three pairs of sympathetic eyes turn in her direction. The bag being removed is the last thing Regina sees before her legs finally give out on her and she slumps to the floor.

It's moments before a doctor is helping her to her feet and any modicum of respect she had earned as mayor is lost as she breaks down in tears.

**White**

Like the light overhead in the cold room of the morgue. It's harsh and angry and full of burning justice for the injustice beneath its glass case. The light emphasises the stillness.

She slips her hand in Emma's as silent tears fall on cold skin. The sleeves of her wife's tank top are barely visible above the sheet that is covering the rest of her body. White tank top over white skin; she rubs the material between her thumb and forefinger.

"I don't mean to interrupt, Madame Mayor," she hears from behind, but pays it no attention. "When you're ready, we'll need you to formally identify her."

She brushes yellow hair from her wife's closed eyes, tucking it tenderly behind a cold ear as she hears a door close softly behind her.

"I love you, Emma," she murmurs quietly as she looks down at peaceful features; she can almost fool herself in to believing Emma is only sleeping.

If it weren't for those blue lips that will never drink bad coffee from a blue mug again. It is far too damning and she closes her eyes, willing away the flares of white hot anger that shoot behind her lids.

She looks to the chair behind her where Emma's red jacket lays folded over the back. It's uncertain how it is here, in the hospital with her, and she finds herself too weary to ask the question.

Fingers, of their own volition, trail down the soft, cold jaw line and she has an overwhelming desire to shake Emma awake, to tell her to stop playing these games. Instead she once more brushes yellow hair from a pale face and pretends not to notice the frequent splashes of salt water on that skin.

_If only_ she thinks and stops herself. Nothing good will come from the end of that thought.

She cannot see Emma's forest green eyes and perhaps that is for the best. No longer would they shout their secrets, held close to her heart; no longer would they silently plead with her for just five more minutes in bed.

It's a tender kiss she places to her wife's forehead, of love and gratitude, of hope and redemption. Willing herself to remain strong, she exits the stark, white room.

There is no more than a look that passes between her and the attendee at the desk and she knows the question that will be asked.

"It's just a formality, Madame Mayor. Can you confirm she is Emma Swan?"

The bright, white light is just as stark in this room and vaguely she thinks she can perhaps hear the hum from the fluorescent bulb.

This, she feels, is the colour of pain – of truths exposed, of hearts bleeding, voices blending in their chorus of cries – all beneath this agonizing, white light.

She exhales deeply and answers the attendee behind the desk.

"Yes."


End file.
